What it's come down to
by amandabellman
Summary: What if John showed up in time to find Scott alive after the Warbeast's attack? Chances are it wouldn't make any difference at all.


He hated seeing Scott like this. His usual overconfident and arrogant self having been reduced to a blabbering mess; a mere mockery of the man he used to know. Well... kind of.

Under different circumstances, he might've enjoyed seeing this side of the annoying man, but such wasn't the case right now. They weren't dealing with some employee leaking out secret documents, they weren't dealing with the humanists. No, this was a much bigger issue. This was death, and it was coming from within their own quarters.

John shuddered were he stood, contemplating when and how things could've possibly gone this far, when he was jerked back to reality by the sound of a wet cough.

Looking down again, he saw that Scott had been trying to perch himself up against the wall. With his body rapidly giving up on him, things hadn't gone well, though, and he was again back to being a sad heap on the floor. John had suspected as much.

He wasn't sure how to even approach Scott. He didn't know how to deal with things like this. When _Nicholson_ had died, John hadn't been the one to find him and – possibly – comfort him in his last moments. _(When _Nicholson_ had died) _John cursed himself as he slowly kneeled down beside the younger man; he'd made it sound as if it was _Scott's_ turn to die next. No, that just couldn't be the case. There had to be some way to get him out of here and to the nearest hospital. It woudn't be too late yet if he could just-

All of a sudden, Scott was screaming. All John had done was put his hand on the other's shoulder to try and turn him over, and he had begun to scream.

John recoiled, taken aback by the sound and the utter desperation it signaled. The man's voice had been raised to such high a pitch, John wouldn't even have recognized it as Scott's voice if he hadn't been there to witness it.

Making up his mind, John again put his hands on the injured man's shoulders, turning him around to face him. Scott never stopped screaming, until his voice was worn out, that is, and all he could muster was a pained wheezing sound that made John cringe even more than the screaming had.

John inhaled slowly; once, twice... That ought to do it, for now.

"Scott, calm down. It's-"

"_Pleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillmeIdon'twantodiepleasedon'tkillmeplease..._"

The words flowing out of Scott's mouth were barely audible, but John heard them, and they somehow broke John's heart more than the other noises had. He'd always known Scott was a coward, only fending for himself, but... Well, he supposed he couldn't blame the man for not wanting to die, _(who would?)_ and it's not that CHAANK's employees weren't all cowards to some degree. When your weapons designer happened to be a deranged manchild, you had to watch your step at any given moment whenever you set your foot in the building. Never quite like this, though. Things had gone from shitty to shittier than ever in the span of a day.

The "please don't kill me"-mantra was still flowing in a steady stream from Scott's lips, as was the blood, and John noticed just now that the other hadn't even opened his eyes. He probably thought John was... well, _whatever_ had done this to him, and that it had come back to finish the job.

With a pretty failed attempt at patience, John tried again.

"Scott, snap out of it! It's me, it's John!"

The other man still kept his eyes shut, lightly shaking his head and never once did he stop whispering that desperate mantra that was beginning to replace John's compassion with anger. Steadying his already quite firm grip on Scott's trembling shoulders, John began shaking him lightly.

"Jesus Christ will you _shut up!?_"

Granted, lashing out at him wouldn't do much good in their current predicament. But what was John supposed to do, then? Neither of them had any fucking idea about what was going on, John especially. He had only gotten here a little while ago, not knowing what he should expect but he sure as all hell hadn't expected _this_.

Scott was unresponsive still, so John just did what popped into his head first; he let go of Scott's shoulders and pulled him into an unsure embrace.

"It's me. Just calm down and it'll all be okay", John said, in a much softer tone now. He didn't know if it would work but it was worth a try. Plus, if it hadn't been for the godawful situation they were both in, he would've liked to sit like this with Scott. It surprised John how easy it was for him to admit his feelings to himself, _now_ of all times.

"J-John...?"

Finally, John had gotten a somewhat good reaction out of him, and he tried his best to force his mouth into a ghost of a smile as he let Scott go.

"Yeah. It's me. Now, I need some answe-"

Once again, he was interrupted. This time, Scott hadn't started screaming, or begun murmuring to himself, but he was holding onto John's progressively blood stained suit with an iron grip. It reminded John of a child refusing to let go of their parents' hand on the first day of school, and at one point in time, he might've laughed at the thought.

"What... t-took you so fucking long?", Scott wheezed, coughing up some blood on the one part of

John's undershirt that had been free from the stuff up until then.

Well, turns out that Scott's final moments in life didn't have a redeeming effect on him in the slightest. John didn't even know why he was surprised. They'd known each other long enough to know these things.

"Well, maybe if you hadn't insisted on confronting Dante and just listened to me for once, none of this would've happened", he replied, feeling his anger and frustration rise up once more. "If you weren't so goddamn stubborn, we wouldn't be in this situation right now!"

Scott fell silent at that, the grip on John's shirt ever tightening.

"How the.. _f-fuck_ was I supposed to know that?"

"Oh I don't know... Maybe if you had taken my point into consideration for once in your fucking life?"

"_Fuck you._"

That was pretty much Scott's way of saying "yeah, I see it now. You were right all along and I was an idiot", but either way, arguing about how this could've been prevented wouldn't change the fact that it had actually happened. There was just no point.

"You know what? I don't care", John huffed, annoyed, attempting to stand up. "There are more serious things at hand here."

As John rose to his full height, Scott let out a pained sort of squeak, a noise that made John think of a dog having its tail stepped on, and all but tore at John's clothes to prevent him from standing up.

"_More serious things?_", Scott mimicked, possibly trying to sound as condescending as possible, but failing miserably. "What could be more serious than me fucking _dying?!_"

John let out an exasparated sigh and rubbed his temples, almost regretting his selfless decision to come back here to make sure that Scott was alright. And the other man just kept on shouting at him, as if he wasn't aware of John's state of stress as well.

"You can't just leave me here! Don't you fucking dare-"

With that, John angrily batted Scott's hands away from his trousers and started pacing back and forth across the wreckage of the room that was Scott's office. If they somehow made it out of this alive, John suspected Scott wouldn't want this place for an office any longer. Hell, John didn't even want to work for this goddamn company any longer.

"I haven't said anything about leaving you here, you ungrateful bastard! Now if you'd just shut the hell up and calm down, we might get to the elevator unnoticed."

"Don't you think I'm... f-fucking trying?"

Scott wasn't so stupid as to refuse help when it was offered, especially in such a dire situation as this, but it wasn't all too easy to calm down when you had just been all but mauled by a giant... whatever the fuck that thing was. He didn't want to think more about it; nothing good would come out of it anyway. Just painful memories that seemed so hazy and far away that they might as well could've been a nightmare. A very vivid sort of nightmare, but a nightmare nonetheless. Oh he'd love for this to be just a nightmare.

As John kept on pacing and talking loudly to himself about how they needed a shortcut to get to the elevator, Scott collapsed back down on the floor once again. His head was swimming, his mouth was dry (how did that even work, with all that blood in his mouth?) and the overall pain in his body was just excruciating. He found himself wishing that he'd just listened to John. It hurt his pride to admit, but John had been right all along; Dante was more dangerous than ever since Cale had showed up and, as Nicholson's untimely death had proven, doing anything in Dante's presence that the madman might perceive as wrong was practically begging for him to kill you.

What had he expected would happen, anyways? For Dante to be somehow reasonable about all this? For him to sit down with him in the conference room to sort out this massive pile of shit before the company went to hell?

Turns out he'd underestimated Dante's sheer insanity a little too much. _I mean, what's the fucker gonna do, really? Dante wouldn't be so stupid as to straight out shoot someone just because oh holy shit what the fuck _is_ that-_

"Hey! Have you been listening at all?"

With his vision clearing a bit after a few blinks, Scott could now see that the bleary, dark-gray shape before him was in fact John; keeping himself busy by waving his hands in front of Scott's face.

"Anyway, listen to me. I think I know how we can get to the elevator while remaining relatively unseen. We're just gonna have to crawl our way through some narrow spaces, but I'm sure you'll manage- Are you listening to me?"

By the sound of John's voice, Scott thought he sounded exhilarated; almost as if he was preparing for battle. Maybe, that was the case. After all, it was a battle for survival. Not a very fair battle, considering their huge disadvantage against Dante, but Jesus _fuck_ he was feeling lightheaded like he could faint at any moment and was that blood coming out of his nose as well?

"I...", Scott tried to say, but articulation failed him as he felt more blood coming up his throat.

John had spent too much time planning their escape route to notice how Scott had been faring even worse as time went by and God did he regret it now. More blood came pouring down from Scott's mouth and he felt panic hit him all over again. A little droplet of the red liquid had even found its way out the man's nose by now. That was a bad sign among bad signs.

John's hand shot out to grasp the back of Scott's neck so that he'd be able to hoist him up a little bit more. John's, now very much bloodstained, hands were now shaking uncontrollably as he laid Scott's upper body on his lap as gently as possible.

This seemed to rouse Scott from his state of silent shock somewhat and, once again, John felt the other man's hands twist themselves into his shirt, as if John was the only thing in this world that could save him. As long as Scott didn't let go of his shirt, everything would be fine and they would both wake up in their beds the next morning, confused and scared out of their minds but at least they'd live to see another day. Taking this dreadful nightmare as a hint that matters at CHAANK were spiralling out of control, John would go to Cale the next day, telling her that he would quit. Scott would quit too, eventually, but not until he'd made sure that something was done about Jack Dante. That's how it was supposed to go down, right? Happy ends for everyone?

As John looked into Scott's eyes, he tried to take some more calming breaths before even attempting to speak, or he was afraid his voice might come out as nothing more than a pathetic whimper. Looking into Scott's eyes and seeing all that smugness finally gone should've been a small victory for John, but not this time. This small victory wasn't worth shit if Scott wound up dead. Everything would be pointless.

The injured man's eyes looked like those of an animal having been caught in a hunter's trap; desperate, staring death right in the eye and wanting nothing more than to just run away. Unfortunately, running away didn't always work. Scott was the (barely) living evidence of that.

But John couldn't think like that now, or he would never be able to keep his composure. Panicking around dying people was never a good idea.

"Scott, can you hear me?", he tried, his left hand still supporting the back of Scott's neck as the right one took hold of the other man's shaking hands.

Up until then, John realised he had never actually looked at Scott's injuries before, but you didn't have to have a medical certificate to know that the injuries were pretty damn severe. John didn't want to look at them, but his brain and body were too riled up to be able to work together.

Still waiting for Scott's answer, his eyes crept downward until he saw the cause of all this shit. Without realising it, John let a quiet whine escape his throat as he looked at the big, bloody gash stretching itself across Scott's abdomen. This wasn't the only wound the man had sustained, but it was by far the biggest one, and John felt sick just looking at it.

Who would've done this? Who _could've_ done this? Jack Dante had something to do with it, no doubt, but there was no way he could've done this much damage to Scott without some help. Could it be one of the Hardmen, perhaps? Had Dante stolen one of the bootleg armours before meeting up with Scott so that he could kill him in the same manner he had killed Nicholson?

That was pretty much the only logical theory that came to mind and John deeply regretted ever approving of the Hardman project. In hindsight, he should've known the risks, but he'd never thought that Dante was _this_ demented...

"John..."

Scott was speaking again, if you could call it that. John could see the man's lips move but he could barely hear the words coming out. Straining his ears, he leant down further towards Scott.

"I don't... I don't w-wanna die."

Out of old habit, John was about to talk back at him; about to tell him that of _course_ no one wants to die, but this was their new reality. It hit John that there wouldn't be any more quarrels between them again, no more reluctantly relying on each other each time Dante fucked something up. No more being horrified of those erotic dreams he'd had of the other man, but yet still hoping in the back of his mind, that one day, those dreams might come true. No nothing. This was the end.

John felt something warm trickle down his cheek and by the time he realized that he was crying, it was already too late. Scott had probably noticed it already and showing weakness in front of Scott Ridley was something John had never done before. At least, he'd like to think so.

As he was furiously trying to wipe the tears away, he noticed how Scott had fallen silent instead of mocking him. Fearing the worst, John took a shivering breath and opened his eyes, hoping that the image of himself crying hadn't been the last thing Scott had seen before kicking the bucket.

But no... Scott wasn't dead yet, and he wasn't mocking John about his tears; instead, he was _smiling_. Not that fake smile he always sported while trying to convince the media that the accusations thrown at the company were false, but it wasn't a happy smile either. He looked defeated; he knew he was dying, but still, he was smiling up at him. John couldn't remember ever seeing something quite so bizarre, and he had been working with Jack Dante for several years.

"Come on, Scott", he said, attempting and failing at keeping his voice somewhat steady. "You can't give up yet. If you can't walk- I can... I can carry you! I'll carry you to the elevator and when we get out, there will be an ambulance waiting outside and-"

"John."

He realized he'd gotten ahead of himself again, thinking there was still some way that they could both make it out alive. It wasn't really what he believed, deep down, but he'd always been good at denying all the bad things going on around him.

Scott's voice was remarkably steady when he'd said John's name. Could it be that the dying man was using up the last ounces of strength left in his broken body to tell him something important?

"Y-yeah...", John mustered, shaking his head. "What is it?"

Letting out a pained chuckle, which really sounded more like a sob, Scott spoke, purposely or instinctively leaning into John like a baby would its mother.

"I'm s-so fucking scared, John... _So_ f-fuckin' scared."

"I know. But... it's okay. Everything's gonna be okay."

John could feel the tears coming again, but he didn't even bother to try to wipe them away this time. He wasn't trying to prove anything to Scott anymore, and Scott wasn't trying to prove anything to him. Finally, they were on equal terms with each other. If only they could've come to this conclusion earlier, without one of them having to die in the process.

He held the younger man closer to him, trying to soothe him somehow in these last moments. Scott's usually slicked back hair was now messy and matted with blood and dust. John ran his free hand through the man's hair, trying to even it out just a little bit. John had fond memories of his mother doing the same thing to him when he had been anxious as a child, and as far as he could remember, it had always managed to calm him down.

He kept on doing it when he felt Scott's grip on his shirt tighten as the younger man had another, much more violent, coughing fit, causing even more blood to run out of his mouth. Still, John held him closer, repeatedly running his hand through his hair and mumbling nonsensical (and hopefully comforting) words to him. This went on for what seemed like eternity, when suddenly, Scott's body started to become heavy; his head sagging backward and his grip on John's shirt loosening. With a resounding thud, his hand fell back down on the floor of his wrecked office, never to move again.

Scott was dead now. He was really dead and there was nothing John had been able to do but sit there and watch it happen. As he sat there, still holding Scott's bloodied body in his arms, John wanted to rip his own hair out, thrash about, just do _something_ to distract himself from this crushing despair that gripped its disgusting fingers at him.

Instead, he sighed heavily and settled Scott's body back on the floor, as carefully as he with his shaking hands could muster. He opened his eyes, blinking away the tears still forming there, and took another look at the man on the floor.

His eyes were only half-closed, but despite that, John thought he looked somewhat peaceful. Scott didn't have to feel all that pain anymore and that was good, he supposed, but what about him? With the other man dying, it was as if John's pain had increased ten-fold and there was absolutely no one left in the world that could understand him. How was any psychiatrist in this whole goddamn country supposed to understand John's situation when he didn't even understand it himself?

_I can't stay here forever._

John knew this, but there was only so much emotional strain he could take before absolutely exhausting himself. Surely, Dante wouldn't come back here? Concluding that that wasn't a risk he was willing to take, John tried to gather his thoughts, despite the situtation.

_It's best if I take those shortcuts I thought of. Now, what did I say? Crawl through the ventilation shaft, or..._

Something interrupted his thoughts, sending him back to (the rather miserable) reality. He'd heard an almost deafening thud from somewhere far away, unless it wasn't just his imagination, of course. For a moment, he'd almost thought it was Scott; that he'd mistaken the man for being dead while really he was just unconscious and that he was now calling for John's attention.

Whipping his head down to look at Scott proved this desperate theory to be false, however. Scott was still lying there in front of him; the colour of his skin having practically disappeared while the blood spattered on and around him had started to coagulate.

John noticed that the other man's right leg was bent in an angle that shouldn't have been possible. How this could've escaped his eye before, John had no idea, but even so, it sent another wave of nausea crashing through him.

As John looked Scott over once again, he took note of all the other gashes that had been inflicted on the younger man, and it made him not only sad and sick to his stomach, but angry as well.

"I'm... sorry this happened", he said in a voice that he didn't quite recognize as his own. "Sorry I wasn't able to help you."

Scott didn't respond. Of fucking course he didn't respond because he was fucking _dead_ and he wouldn't have been if John would've just arrived a little bit sooner-

There it was again; that loud thud. Only it had increased in volume this time. Not to mention that several other heavy, ground-shattering thuds followed. _You've got to be kidding me._

John realized he had to make a break for it, unless he wanted to face the same fate as Scott (maybe that would be better than having to deal with this shit alone?), but still, he was reluctant to leave Scott's side.

Quickly, he stretched out his hand towards Scott's face; closing the man's eyelids as gently as he could, while running his other hand through Scott's hair one last time. Even though the touches of skin were brief, John took note of how cold the other man had gotten already. It was an awful cold; the worst kind of cold there could possibly be, but it was there and it was real. John hated it with every fiber of his being.

"I'll come back for you. You'll see."

What was he even trying to accomplish here? Maybe he was just losing it; perhaps his own brain held the source of those thuds drawing closer by the minute, maybe Scott wasn't really dead and maybe they weren't royally fucked. _Denial. Great._ He'd already started denying the horrible things he'd seen this night.

The question arose again; what was he trying to accomplish by talking to Scott's body? Was he really that desperate for the man to be alive? Scott had been one of the most annoying people John had ever had the misfortune of having to work with, and Scott's cockiness and general lack of concern for everyone except himself didn't help in creating a healthy working space.

Then again, they'd all been through so much together, and they had come to rely on each other in times of hardship. Just as John had started to accept the... feelings he had developed for Scott, Dante had to fuck things up again. And fuck them up beyond repair no less.

Still sitting by Scott's side, he hardly even noticed how the thuds had come so close and become so loud, that they practically shook the whole building in its foundation. The menace that had done this to Scott was coming for him now, and knowing what it looked like would probably help him in the near future, but he just couldn't bring himself to look at it. He couldn't do it.

Visibly shaking, sweat and tears merging together on his face, John rose up quickly and shot Scott one last look.

"Don't worry. I'll... I'll come back."

Having understood from which direction the beast was coming from, he had no more time to lose. John Carpenter closed his eyes, and ran.


End file.
